Once the day is dead
And the night is black
When everyone sleeps,
I creep out of my bed
And open that room
To which no one else
Is allowed to know of.
The room is the opposite
Of what I am like under
The glaring light of the day.
In the cool comforting darkness,
I enter the mess which lets me
Breathe, without feeling a hand
Choking my throat continuously.
The room is messy, but nothing
Is dusty, everything being fondled
Every night by trembling fingers.
Sometimes, the things in the room
Comfort me, like a long hug
Sometimes they cut me,
Like sharp, merciless tongues.
I know I have to clean this room
One day, and get rid of what people
Call, “junk. But not tonight, tonight
I want to feel them one last time,
And remember the things I can never
Touch, except in this secret room.